Almost Over
by M.T. Stockton
Summary: Yeah, it's a bad title, but what can I say? It's the thoughts of Judas during the Last Supper. Warning: not openly hostile to the man. LoL. Please R&R.


**A/N:** Again with the religious subject matter! What is with me? Anyways, this one deals with the thoughts of Judas during the last supper. And so, by way of warning, if you're a Christian fundamentalist to any degree, this might offend you, for the following reasons:

1. It's told from the point of view of Judas, is sympathetic to him, and tries to explain his motives;

2. I fall somewhere between agnosticism and atheism, so hold no real spiritual beliefs;

3. This is probably closer in terms of canon to Jesus Christ Superstar than to the actual Bible (which I do own and have read… I just happen to like JCS a whole lot more!).

If you found yourself thinking "Blasphemy!" at any point in this disclaimer, I suggest you turn back. You have been duly warned. Otherwise, on with it!

* * *

It is almost over. The end… well, it's been a long time coming. And it's necessary, I tell myself. Necessary. It was all that could be done. When did it come to this? I remember when this all started… Three years ago? Seems like thirty.

Now here we all are, the twelve of us, with him, dining. Just like any other time. Only it isn't, and this time will be the last. But they, the other eleven, don't know that yet. They don't understand, any of them. They don't want to, they never did. They never saw what I did. They've always been naïve. Love is blind.

There is Peter, on the surface loyal to a fault. I know his kind. When the pressure is on, when it comes down to him or the other, he'll choose himself. But I can't blame him. It's only human. But he's still trusted, and would be forgiven anything. I could see him being important later on.

There is John, the youngest of us, doted on like a favourite son. And he knows it. Add to that the budding keen mind, not yet strong enough to overcome the innocence but on its way, and he could be one to give himself airs. But, like Peter, like all the others, his love truly is strong.

There is Simon, the fervent, the zealot… He dreams of an uprising, a violent overthrow, he dreams of a home for the Jews. If the Jews would only rally together under a common banner, then they would be strong enough… He thinks this group will lead to that end.

There is Thomas, perhaps the only real questioner in the group, other than myself. But he was able to choose to go with the flow in a way that I wasn't. The same as the others - James, Andrew, Philip, Bartholomew, Mathew, James, and Thaddeus.

But not I. At first, yes, at first this was beautiful, meaningful. The promise was of peace, of harmony. The message was one of love. It was one of salvation for suffering Israel, of something better that could come later, but not through violence, not through the kind of revolution which would always, ultimately, fail. It was going to give the people hope and a renewed strength to endure this, their plight. Yes, it was beautiful. And for once, I was able to look forward to a better fate for all the oppressed people in the country, one they could all easily attain without resorting to violence, without bloodshed, without more suffering. I felt I was doing something worthwhile, something that would help. We could raise money to give to the poor, give clothing and food…

And there was him. _Him_. He inspired us all. He was strong, he was loving, he was good. And the poor, directionless people latched onto him. He became the latest in a long string of messiahs. But there was something more about him, some charisma, some potent inner fire… When the first whispers of "the son of God" began to make themselves heard, I paid no heed. That, to me, was secondary. It didn't mean as much as the goal, the message he brought, the ideals we all espoused. To me, what he did and said was more important than who he was.

But not so for the rest. The son of God… Soon, it was everywhere. Jesus, the Christ, the anointed one, the son of God. And it began to taint everything he said and did, gave it a whole new colour. He was either divinely appointed, or a blasphemer, depending. The core of his message didn't matter so much, anymore.

His prestige was growing, though, while his teachings were being lost. And some, seeing what an influence he was coming to have, wanted to rally behind him and fight for the kinds of ideals touted by Simon. Expel the Romans, reclaim our country… He was becoming powerful enough that they felt he could do it.

And now, the people are divided. There is tension, upheaval, with ever more suffering and violence pending. The priests, the Pharisees, and the scribes, are pitted against those who believe in his divinity. Those who yearn for revolution wish to be pitted against the Roman authorities.

And all this is completely beyond his control. He is the centre of this devastating storm, but he is utterly powerless to direct it. As our ideals die around us, as innocent people are sent hurtling toward some precipice with catastrophic consequences, he can do nothing. So I did.

I, always his right-hand man, his confidante, closer than a brother, I had gone to Caiaphas. The high priest had been eager for information on how to lay hands on this menace. He will have sent for the Roman guard by now, and all I have to do will be to leave the supper when the moment is right, lead them to the garden, and indicate the proper person. They will then take him back to Caiaphas, then possibly to Pilate, and most likely, he will be put to death. Simple.

But as I watch him now, breaking the bread, pouring the wine, I doubt. He is asking us to remember him, after his death, when we eat and drink, as though he knows it is impending. Perhaps he does. Perhaps there is something more to him. But that doesn't matter. He was always just… just Jesus, to me, with all that entailed. What is he to me, now? And what am I to him?

It seems he knew when I felt the first twinges of disillusionment, and let it happen, let me turn away, let us break apart. It seems he let all this happen. Because I have no doubt now that he knew, all along. How that can be, I haven't the first inkling. But he knows, even now he knows what I will do. Oh Jesus, Jesus, ask me to stay, and I will! If you know, then tell me not to do it! Tell me we can make this right, tell me this can be set straight! Tell me the ideal isn't dead.

I look up at him, and find him looking back. Oh yes, he knows. But he will not stop it. Yet, he is not powerless. I was wrong, so wrong. He is letting this happen, not because he has to, but because he wills it. And since he wills it, I will it, as well. And so, when he tells me to go, and do what I must do quickly, I do. It is almost over.


End file.
